


Impossible

by faerymorstan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (But That Wasn't A Tag), (More Accurately Park Rangers), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Hunters, Fawnlock, Forests, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>also <a href="http://verymorstan.tumblr.com/post/109247943282/the-long-suffering-and-patient-khorazir-asked-for">on tumblr.</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	Impossible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/gifts).



> also [on tumblr.](http://verymorstan.tumblr.com/post/109247943282/the-long-suffering-and-patient-khorazir-asked-for)

“You haven’t written a word, have you?”

John shrugs. Stares at the potted plants. Hazards a glance at Ella.

“Look, John,” she says, leaning over her notepad, “you don’t have to write in your blog, not if you don’t want to, but you  _do_  need to express yourself somehow. You need to show yourself that you’re still here.”

_I’m not, though_ , John thinks. Crosses his legs as Ella adds, “My wife will let me lend you her spare camera as long as you promise me that you really will use it.”

John leaves Ella’s office with the camera bag heavy on his shoulder. The grey sky spills snow. His cane skids on wet pavement. He has to be careful. 

He hates having to be careful.

*

The deer don’t give a shit about him, and neither does he.

His scarf soft against his neck, his parka warm and bulky around him, John stabs at buttons with his gloved hands until he sees silhouettes through the viewfinder: does in a sea of frost-tipped grass and branches curling black and bare across the early morning sun. A bird explodes from the ground cover, flaps fast and fierce toward the forest when the deer startle it. 

The does scatter, giving way to a park ranger (about his height, blonde,  _gorgeous_ , might be worth introducing himself) bundled in a red coat and pink scarf; next to her, there’s a—a—.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” the ranger asks the impossibility standing before her, the thing John can’t believe will show up in the photographs because it cannot possibly be real, yet it must be real, John isn’t well but he isn’t unwell like _that,_  Jesus, he…. 

The impossibility wrinkles its nose as the park ranger wraps a blue scarf around its neck. “You don’t need to fuss over me anymore.”

“I know,” she says, patting the dark-furred, freckle-flecked chest, “I just… I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Antlers dip as the creature bends to kiss the ranger’s forehead. “I know.”

The ranger shifts her weight from one leg to the other; long, cervine ears flick, and the ranger says, “Come back sometime, won’t you?”

The impossibility caresses the ranger’s cheek. His ( _his?_ John asks himself, furrows his brow,  _when exactly did we decide on that?_ ) smile seems sad.

“Mary,” he says, kisses her forehead once more, sprints for the trees, vanishes from view.

The ranger wipes tears from her cheeks.

John doesn’t realise he’s still taking pictures until he puts the camera away.

“You don’t tell,” Mary says, turning her head so her eyes are on his, predator-keen, her voice suddenly loud. John startles; he thought she hadn’t seen him. “About him. You don’t tell a soul.”

“I won’t. Can’t imagine who’d believe me, anyway.” Mary stands still for a moment, then walks toward him until he can see the wetness on her cheeks. “So how did you and the, um, the…?”

“How did Sherlock and I meet?” John nods. “Oh, I shot him.” 

“You—.” John blinks. “I’m sorry. You  _shot_ him?” 

Mary bites her lips. “In the chest. We were doing a herd cull, and I thought he was an old, old stag, and… I felt awful, but I could hardly have known that he was—who he is.  _What_  he is.” 

“What is he?” The question’s vertigo-inducing, a lean over a precipice John can neither comprehend nor resist.

Mary smiles. John’s heart beats harder. “Want to find out?”

“God, yes.”

John adjusts the strap on his shoulder and follows her into the woods, frost melting away beneath his boots.


End file.
